The paramedic deftly slid between her and MacAuliffe. He signaled to one of the police officers, and said, “He’s in good hands now, ma’am.”
Molly tried to take MacAuliffe’s hand, but a police officer stepped in and took Molly under the arm. He gently led her to a chair in the foyer.
More police officers swarmed into the office. The short, blocky female officer ordered them to secure the perimeter. Gathering evidence could wait. Martha saw “Corvari” on her nametag. “Officer Corvari, you might want to call in Detective Eric Metcalf,” she said. “This is probably related to a case he’s working on.”
“What case would that be?” She had already turned toward her shoulder mic.
“The Hewitt Wilcox disappearance.”
Corvari relayed the message to dispatch. Martha continued, “Lance Trammell, the tall guy over there, came in the front and I went around to the back door. A guy dressed in black with a ski mask was just coming out. He took a couple of shots at me. I can show you where.”
“Were you injured?”
“No, he missed.”
“Okay, give me a minute here.”
Martha stepped back and found herself suddenly alone. Trammell was talking to a police officer. One paramedic continued attending to MacAuliffe. The second knelt before Molly, holding a needle up to the light. A clear liquid squirted from the end. The cops all moved with a purpose. Martha found a chair and hunched over her knees. Whoever trashed the houseboat must have known Hewitt had talked to Trammell. But who? And how did they know? If they knew Hewitt had approached Trammell, they must know Hewitt had contacted her. Maybe Trammell was right about the Mormon Death Angels.
She glanced at MacAuliffe. The paramedic had placed a couple of large square gauze pads on his scalp and was unrolling a bandage to hold them in place. Had MacAuliffe been lucky or had someone only meant to knock him out? If so, why the shots in the office?
“Okay, you wanna show me where he took these shots at you,” Corvari said, approaching Martha. She had holstered her gun. The bulletproof vest hid any semblance of a figure.
“He must have been wearing night goggles,” Martha said, as they moved to the back door. “He threw the breaker before smacking MacAuliffe over the head. The shots definitely came after the lights were out. And when he came out the back door, he held the gun like a professional.”
“A professional thug? Someone must have been really disgusted with that sex column.”
Martha allowed herself a brief smile. A cop with a personality? In a long day of “just the facts, ma’am,” it seemed out of place—and welcome. “I doubt it. Trammell was probably the intended victim. MacAuliffe just got thirsty first. He went into the back for a beer.”
Outside they were greeted by rain that pelted against the building. Martha pulled her coat tight around her. A poncho-clad cop stood up near the sidewalk where Martha had first rounded the corner. A second officer stepped out of a doorway one store down. The policewoman snapped on a flashlight and called out to each. They acknowledged her and resumed their positions.
“I came around that corner where the officer is standing,” Martha began, pointing. “The man appeared in the doorway about the same time. Mostly just a shadow, dressed in black. Wearing a ski mask. He had his gun raised with two hands when he appeared. I dove for the garbage container. I heard two shots and felt the debris fall down on me. I rolled behind the recycling bin. Then, he was gone, down the hill toward Shilshole Avenue.”
“How do you know it was a guy?” Corvari asked.
“No hips. He had no hips, and he moved like a guy.”
Corvari nodded. She lifted the top of the recycling bin, peered in with her light and closed it again. She scanned the brick wall with her flashlight, pausing at two pockmarks where crude ovals of fresh red clay contrasted with the faded exterior. She lowered the beam to look behind the recycling bin and ran it back up the wall to look at the pockmarks again.
“Okay, I’ll have forensics get on it,” Corvari said. “But I hate to rain on your parade, ma’am. Either the guy wasn’t a pro or he was just trying to scare you. Both those shots are easily a foot over your head. And you’re a big girl. They’re not wide or low. Just two shots in exactly the same place. There’s only a couple of old pizza boxes in the recycling bin. He could have shot through the plastic if he intended to hurt you. I’d say the dude was trying to scare you. Give himself a chance to run like a bunny through the bushes.”
Martha remembered the deliberate way the man came through the door and swung the gun toward her. She hadn’t stopped to consider whether he was aiming at her or over her head. Just two shots and no more. Like MacAuliffe, she wasn’t dead because the gunman didn’t want her dead. It was only vanity to think otherwise.
“You’re probably right,” Martha said, shaking her head. “I also heard two shots that came from inside the office. After the lights flashed off, but before he came out of the building.”
“That’s why our sweet Molly Brown thought her friend had been shot,” Corvari said, nodding.
Inside, they found the bullet holes in the ceiling above the spot where MacAuliffe had lain unconscious on the floor. Corvari ordered the area cordoned off until forensics arrived.
“You’re sure this was after the lights went out?” she asked.
“Positive.”
“Which means the writer dude was already unconscious and the two kids were bound together in the bathroom.”
“Just more fireworks?”
“Or he needed to practice with his night goggles on.”
Trammell approached them as they were looking at the ceiling. Fatigue lined his thin face. Dark stubble now covered the area around his goatee. He said to Corvari, “The guy over there said I should talk to you.”
“And now you’re talking to me.”
“I think I found why the guy was here. My workspace has been searched.”
“I saw that. Okay, let’s go take a look. Anything missing?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Martha watched Trammell lead the policewoman back through the maze of partitions. Molly sat sobbing quietly on a small sofa near the office entrance, her head on Benji’s shoulder, her eyes closed. He had thrown an arm around her. A police officer knelt in front of MacAuliffe, scribbling a note. Martha slumped to the floor beside him.
“How you doing, James?”
“Shitty,” MacAuliffe said. “Like a garbage truck just ran over my brain.”
“Make sure Molly knows where they take you so she can visit.”
“As if I haven’t already had enough fun tonight. Maybe I’ll call you instead. You can come punch me in the kidney and we can share some laughs.”
Martha smiled and squeezed his hand. “Take care, James. Be safe.”
“Yeah, backatcha.”
With the help of the paramedic, MacAuliffe grunted to a stand. He limped toward the front door, giving Benji a fist bump on the way by.
“And don’t forget to have them take a look at that leg while you’re there,” Martha shouted out.
He turned back, and through his beard, she caught a glimpse of a tired smile. But it was a smile all the same.
SEVEN
At six o’clock, Martha groped for her squawking alarm and slipped back into a troubled dream. Images rose on a dark sea, people and places all gathering together in no logical pattern: Hewitt with his long white hair swirling in the current; her sister Rachel, radiant and alive, hovering above the water, a wingless angel; a bloody Uncle Walt peeking in at the edge of her dream like a voyeur. Waves crashed on a desolate, rocky shore that loomed in the background.
Her eyes blinked opened. Crashing waves were replaced by the ringing of her phone. Before she could throw back the covers, the phone went silent. A sloth-like lethargy took over, and she remained motionless in the warm bed. The solid lump that was Beatrice purred under the covers near Martha’s feet. Her favorite spot. Stroking Beatrice with her toes evoked an even more throaty purr. Un
der her grandmother’s down quilt, made for harsh winter nights in northern Michigan and blessed with a Chippewa prayer, the world beyond her bed held no appeal.
Fragments of the dream flitted in and out, soon to be lost, she knew, to the waking mind. Rachel and Uncle Walt slipped from her grasp like a handful of seawater. When Hewitt’s image faded into the depths of the ocean, Martha bolted upright. Her sister and Uncle Walt were both dead. Across the dark room, her phone lay on the dresser. A faint beep indicated a new message.
In a panic, she tossed back the covers and thumbed to the new message. She recognized the number immediately—the private number of her boss, Ben Matthews. She didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she let out a long sigh. But relief quickly gave way to dread. She glanced at the clock. Six thirty-nine. She had texted Ben a couple of hours ago, then texted Crystal, figuring Ben wouldn’t know how to retrieve a message even if he saw it there.
Martha hit the callback button. Ben answered immediately. “Martha, we go into conference on the McGwire trial in fifteen minutes. Hang on a sec.”
A Corelli cello concerto replaced his voice. She cursed under her breath. Joel McGwire had hired the firm to clear himself of corruption charges. McGwire was richer than God, but not quite as wealthy as Bill Gates was. At age eighty-four, the parking lot baron and real estate developer faced the bleak possibility of spending what was left of his life in jail. And he expected CH&N to prevent that from happening. Ben Matthews was personally overseeing the case and had selected Martha as the lead. Hewitt’s accusations of selling her soul flitted through her mind. Jury selection started in three weeks. Martha and her CH&N team were not ready, as Matthews knew very well.
He came back on line. “Sorry about—”
“I’m not able to make the meeting, Ben,” she interrupted. “Ronnie’s been involved from day one. Ask him to lead.” Also a junior associate, Ron Belle was bright, ambitious, and ruthless. He would play it like a fireman rescuing a baby from a burning building. “He knows the case, Ben. I need a few days off. Something urgent’s come up.”
Martha liked Ben and was beholden to him for her present success. He had been fair and tough, counseling in private, supportive in public, increasing her responsibilities with each successful case. Her growing salary and the promise of an office with a window overlooking Puget Sound reflected her value to the firm. But that didn’t mean the company owned her.
“Yeah. I got your text this morning,” Matthews said. “Crystal said it was family. Everything okay? Are you back in Michigan?”
Matthews routinely worked sixty to seventy hours a week and expected his juniors to work even more. Getting time off was akin to winning the lottery. CH&N had even reserved a private office for junior attorneys to use if sick—the quarantine room. More than once, Martha had isolated herself there.
“No, I’m home in Seattle. It’s getting ugly, Ben. I finished my second interrogation with the police this morning at three a.m. I don’t know what’s going on, but it seems I’m a prime suspect in a missing person’s case. I have to take a few days off to sort this out. I tell you this in strictest confidence. Please extend my personal apologies to Mr. McGwire.”
Matthews’ voice softened. “A suspect? Jesus! Of course. Take the time. I was just calling to get the password to your computer. Crystal’s not in yet. Is there anything you need? I can assign someone to represent you.”
His response surprised, even humbled her. No guilt, no lectures, just understanding and support. She said, “That’s not necessary, Ben, but thank you. I just need some time.”
She gave him her password.
“It’s Thursday, Martha,” he said. “I’m covering the McGwire meeting this morning. Check in with me by Monday.”
“Of course.” Martha paused, “And thank you, Ben. I appreciate it very much.”
“You just take care of yourself, and call me directly if you need anything. You know my private number.”
Martha slumped back on the bed and thought about burrowing back between the sheets, but she knew there would be no more sleep. Already her mind whirled with unanswered questions. She ate half a stale muffin, the remains of yesterday’s hurried breakfast before leaving to meet Hewitt on the pier. Several cups of coffee, brewed strong, provided no new insights into what had happened to Hewitt. She kept coming back to Trammell and the Mormon Death Angels. Could they really exist? What did Hewitt have and where was it? Would the key unlock that mystery?
Donning yoga pants and an old sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off at the elbows, Martha shoved the sofa against the wall. She unrolled a yoga mat on the Persian carpet and began stretching. Body and muscles soon flowed to the rhythm of her steady breathing. Eyes half-closed, she coaxed her body into harder and harder positions. A touch of perspiration formed across her forehead.
Fifteen minutes later, she stopped mid-pose, kneeling on the mat, one leg back, her back straight, an arm forward. Her eyes popped open in frustration. Halfway into her routine and still her mind roared. The only thing flowing up her spine and out the top of her head were questions. Foremost among them—what on earth was Hewitt trying to tell her with a torn postcard of Pete’s Supermarket and a mysterious key wrapped up with fishing line? It was the next question that had her bringing her hands together in an abrupt “Namaste.” Why would a gunman purposely shoot over her head? Answer one—he wanted her alive. Answer two—he’d be back.
She rolled up her mat. Yoga had become like methadone to a heroin habit. Before yoga, she had been addicted to the violence inherent in Shuto Kai karate, kendo, and t’ai chi ch’uan, gaining power and confidence. And power in a former victim was a dangerous thing. At some point, Martha realized her hunger for power was overtaking the spiritual quest. So many principles of yoga and the martial arts were the same—grace, beauty of movement, the strength of character—but yoga was devoid of violence and its power was only over oneself. Something she desperately needed.
Today, however, what she needed was a good old-fashioned fight on the tatami. And if she was the target of some crazed Mormons, all the more reason to dust off a few skills.
She stood up, and as she poured a bowl of milk for Beatrice, she glanced out the kitchen window across the lawn to the big craftsman house on the bluff, with its perfect view of Shilshole Bay Marina, Puget Sound, and the Olympic Mountains. A perfect view of what had taken all her available finances. Today, she knew, post-home mortgage loan scandal, she would never qualify to buy the house. But a few years back, with three percent down and a regular job—even if a junior lawyer’s salary wasn’t what the loan officer had expected—the bank was more than happy to give her a loan. Each raise at CH&N made that mortgage a little easier. And one day—maybe when she made partner—she could afford to live in her own house.
Still worth it, even if it meant living in an apartment above the garage while renting out the main house—most recently to a visiting Dutch scholar at the University of Washington and his family. Karl and Iris Heiden had been renting the house for nearly two years. The Heidens’ three girls—twelve-year-old Olivia, her little sister Lilith, and baby Josephina, with her perpetual smile—had been welcome additions to Martha’s extended family. She remembered their birthdays, surprised them with trips out for ice cream, and had them up to the garage for a girls’ slumber party when their parents had traveled to Portland for a convention. Olivia had even christened the garage with a new name. “Someday, Marta,” the young girl said in her rapidly improving English, “I too will live in carriage house. Like a princess. Like you. Only I will have horses. I will always ride them every day. And I will have my prince.”
Since then, it had been the Carriage House. Though Martha was still waiting for her prince.
Before Martha bought the property, the garage had been a place to tote things in that never came out. The size of a small barn, it combined the lingering smells of oil, dust, and mold. Turning the loft into an apartment had taken all her after-work hours. One year, she
had rewired the building so breakers didn’t pop every time she turned on her hair dryer; the next it had been hanging the drywall, a project that had forced her and Beatrice downstairs among the cars for most of the summer. New thermopane windows now looked over an undeveloped ravine and a grove of large cedars, a view she loved. The summer before, she had laid the bamboo floor; the natural grain glowed yellow-gold in the evening light.
Only recently had she allowed herself the luxury of thinking about the completed project. Soon, her tool belt and nail gun and compressor could be put away. A mill in south Seattle had replicated the craftsman molding from the 1907 house, and she was in the final stages of installing baseboards and door and window trim. With the end of restoration in sight, she had begun to think of the Carriage House as home.
She set the milk down, and Beatrice roused herself from sleep. Martha showered and dressed in a cream silk blouse, a lightweight charcoal cashmere sweater, and black jeans. Hoop earrings and a simple white gold necklace finished her attire. She glanced in the mirror and liked what she saw—delicate cheekbones and a high brow, a gift from Gran and her Native American heritage, and the one blue and one hazel eye. She had long since stopped worrying about her oversized nose and small breasts. She stroked a brush through black curls that fell to her shoulders. Boots added two inches to her six-foot frame.
The Pineapple Express showed no signs of letting up on the rain, so she chose her black raincoat and an umbrella with a carved duck’s head handle, a gift many years ago from Hewitt. Like so many of his gifts, it was both playful and practical. “How serious can a corporate attorney be,” he had said, “if she carries an umbrella with a duck’s head?” She loved the playfulness that Hewitt had brought to her life, and always carried the umbrella if the forecast called for rain. Was that fun now gone? She refused to believe it.
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